


Lovely

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 16:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10442520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: It wasn't that he was curious.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving old fic from who knows when!
> 
> For the Good Omens kink meme. Prompt: "A/C - Aziraphale's first time (awww, how romantic, I'm a sucker for that sort of thing)."

It wasn't that he was curious. Of course, he _was_ curious--surely anyone would be--but not curious enough to risk, well, _everything_ just to find out. It wasn't until he made a rather nervous appearance at the next annual meeting of Heaven's field agents (past and present) and had Gabriel ask him rather resignedly how "that demon of his" was doing that he realized he might not have had anything to worry about after all.

"Er...just fine, thank you," he said, fidgeting as Gabriel gave him the loving, bewildered look of a parent just dying to ask, 'But what about that nice Henderson boy?'

"Well," Gabriel said doubtfully, "as long as you're happy." The archangel watched Aziraphale twist a paper napkin into worried origami shapes for a long moment, then smiled, determinedly bright. "So...is he any good?"

Aziraphale dropped his jaw and then his napkin, blushing furiously as he closed his mouth with a snap. "I'm sure I wouldn't know," he managed, hoping for a tone of offended dignity and managing a squeak instead.

Gabriel's brows arched in marked disbelief, but in the end the archangel only said, "Pity. He's lovely."

***

Aziraphale returned to his bookshop the next morning with his head full of cotton and his thoughts a hopeless jumble. It was almost noon, in fact, before he realized he hadn't had to chase any customers away because he'd never unlocked the door. He'd _thought_ he'd heard a strange knocking sound once or twice, but he hadn't paid it any attention; the one person a lock would have been nice to have against would have ignored it anyway.

"Aziraphale?"

Lovely. Gabriel had called Crowley _lovely._

"Uh, are you okay? Angel?"

Well, it was true, of course; six thousand years of startled double-takes and indecent proposals from the humans around them had to mean _something._ Crowley had those cheekbones, after all, high and sharp, a brow more than one sculptor had called noble, that thick black hair that practically begged to have fingers buried in it. At least, modern fashion being what it was, he wasn't putting himself on _display_ anymore...though Aziraphale had resolutely refused every offer to accompany the demon to the beach for the last fifty years.

Oh, dear.

"Uh...I can come back later, if now's a bad time."

But really, what did Gabriel know? He couldn't possibly appreciate the way Crowley would turn with a wicked grin every time the demon worked a wile in his presence, expecting him to thwart it but inviting him to share the joke first, making Aziraphale laugh in _spite_ of himself more often than not. The way he complained about the humans' foolishness, their rampant consumerism, their utter lack of taste when they turned movies he'd inspired into summer blockbusters...and quietly replaced the desecrated tapes in his glove box as often as need be, followed Aziraphale to the theater and the opera and endless art galleries with only a token protest. The way he threw himself wholeheartedly into everything, even sleep--especially sleep.

"Okay, you have three seconds to prove you're not comatose before I do something drastic."

Aziraphale wondered vaguely what it would be like to watch Crowley sleep and then wake again, from as close as the same pillow, and had to fight back a blush.

"One...."

Surely Gabriel couldn't mean _that_ kind of lovely. That was Aziraphale's alone.

"...right, bugger this."

He jerked in startlement when a pair of warm lips slid determinedly against his own, coaxing, teasing as the delicate tips of a forked tongue flicked lightly until they parted. Open, distant eyes blinked and blinked again, saw the warped curve of his own reflection in black lenses, the worried crease of dark brows. Crowley. Who was shifting to pull back though the hand on Aziraphale's shoulder would have bruised a mortal, silent apprehension in the clutch of his fingers.

Aziraphale covered Crowley's hand with his own, closed his eyes and kissed back.

***

The cotton in his head had returned, but he had a better excuse for it this time: Crowley, naked, crawling up the length of the bed towards him with serious eyes and a cocksure smile, moving slow and deliberate. It seemed petty of him somehow to find himself watching the smooth flex of lean muscle under pale skin when it was Crowley's spirit and determination that drew him, to feel his stomach tighten and his prick twitch at the curve of the demon's smile as Crowley crouched over him, sensuous mouth parting to lick and bite.

Pleasure he'd expected--the humans went on about it often enough, composed odes and reached for the oil paints and the 8mm film--but the hot coil of Crowley's tongue around his cock arched him right off the bed, stilled his unneeded breath in his redundant lungs and made him fist his hands desperately in the sheets. He'd never really noticed the way every nerve in his body connected to every other nerve, so that the wet, slow slide of Crowley's mouth down his length could make his fingertips tingle, his toes curl, arc little jolts of sensation up his spine and into the pit of his stomach. He wondered blindly if it was the same for Crowley, because he couldn't imagine what else had put such a look of drugged concentration on the demon's face, how he could be so blatantly savoring Aziraphale's taste, the thickness of him on his tongue, unless it was somehow pleasurable for him as well.

And then Crowley opened his eyes--gold, metallic, pupils blown out nearly round--tipped them up slowly to meet Aziraphale's own, and he didn't have to ask.

***

Having Crowley wrapped around him was not unlike being cuddled by an affectionate snake: unrepentantly heat-seeking, impossible to shift, and surprisingly heavier than he looked. Aziraphale could also feel every languid roll of the demon's sleek muscles each time Crowley shifted against him, which was often. Not that Crowley wasn't satisfied, but he was restless in a tactile way, rubbing serpent-like against him as if he still didn't know what hugs were for.

Aching pleasantly, still a sweaty, sticky mess mainly because he wanted to be, Aziraphale smiled into Crowley's hair and settled his arms around the demon again.

"Lovely," he said, possessive, grateful, and Crowley hissed something sleepy and wordless in reply.


End file.
